


the perfect stranger who knows you too well

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dom/sub, Hand Job, Kink Meme, M/M, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-21
Updated: 2010-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Keats is a sneaky bastard and Gene is out of his depth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the perfect stranger who knows you too well

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, for the prompt "masters, doms, slaves, and subs". Originally posted at the Ashes to Ashes Kink Meme, for the prompt "Gene/Keats, "dominance".

Keats is a sneaky bastard, and that's the only reason Gene's face-down over his own desk right now.

(This is what he tells himself, every time.)

Keats is sneaky, so Gene didn't hear him come in. Keats is smart, which is why there's no one left in the office, lights going slowly grey. Keats is slippery, so it's not surprising he pinned Gene between himself and the wall, let him rage and bellow, neatly side-stepping the worst of the punches Gene threw.

Keats is also, Gene is finding out, extremely patient. Just laced his arms around and through Gene's, pinned him to the wall and _waited_. No matter what he does, what insults he throws, how he tries to muscle his way free, Gene simply doesn't have the leverage. All his struggling accomplishes precisely fuck-all.

"Glad to see we're finally on the same page,"

"Sod that," Gene growled, trying to free his arm so he can elbow Keats somewhere it'll hurt. "We're not even in the same book, you two-faced wanker."

He could practically hear Keats's eyes roll in irritation. "Not my fault, that. You're the one that chucked the rule book out the window. We could've been a good team, once."

(Part of him knows Keats is lying, always lies, but part of him - the part that never quite picks up the phone to commit Alex to the loony bin and never called Hyde CID to check out Sam - can't help but think of what might have been. Keats is smart, and sneaky, and patient, and all of those things have their place in law enforcement. Combining his gut instincts with "by the book" has worked before, after all.)

"That was then, this is now," Gene answered, trying for a headbutt and getting body-checked against the plaster for it. Pain blossomed, bright and sharp, in his shoulder and head, where they've impacted with the wall, and it does what it always does for him.

It's good. Reminds him he's alive, that there's blood in his veins and air in his lungs.

Keats knows him well, though just how that came about, Gene doesn't know. Doesn't say anything and lets Gene huff out a few pained breaths before he shifts his balance and neatly pivots and before Gene knows it, Keats has got him bent over his desk.

And so, there they are. There Keats is, pressed uncomfortably tight to Gene's back, hand wrapped around a particularly bruised section of his upper arm (digging in, and oh fuck, fuck, that's good). Gene's prick is pressed tightly against the desk, and he swears on the soul of John Wayne that he's _not_ the one making those low pleading noises.

"Use your words, Gene," Keats says, shift of his hips pressing Gene closer to the desk. "Surely you're not embarrassed to ask for what you want."

He'll deny ever uttering them with his final breath, but the words just come out: "Stop arsing around and fuck me."

Keats laughs, the low vibration of it seeping into Gene's back and making him even harder. He's not the only one getting off, though, can feel Keats hard and hot against his hip, and he shoves back against him just to hear Keats's bitten-off swearing. Keats cautiously releases his grip and moves his hand to the front of Gene's trousers, rubbing hard and quick. Gene's head drops to rest against the desk, and Keats's hand squeezes, sharp and vicious, making Gene yell and buck against him.

"Ah-ah. You can do better than that."

Smarmy bastard wants to hear him beg, does he? Christ, he's gone off the deep end even considering rolling over for Jim bloody Keats, but his cock has other ideas, as does his mouth.

"I'm sorry. Let me rephrase that for you, Detective Chief Inspector Tosspot. Will you please, for the love of God and all coppers everywhere, either wank me off or unfasten my bloody trousers and stick your prick up my arse?

"Evocative and succinct," Keats snickers. "So nice of you to give me the choice. You really shouldn't have."

He's right. Keats wanks him off through his trousers, not even unzipping or touching him through his pants. But the friction is bloody perfect, and Keats has a filthy imagination and no aversion to sharing it. Gene resigns himself to a trip to the gents' afterwards to clean up and just lets go, coming in his trousers like a kid on his first date.

To add insult to injury, Keats swipes the half-full bottle of whiskey from the cabinet on his way out the door.


End file.
